6 March 2012

We bide our time.
We have too long to wait for the next poppadom (and we hope there's not another poem).
We have nothing to say and we know that we have said it.
The truth of our insincerity is plain – in return we receive spam from florists in Pakistan.
We want this new kind of yellowness.
Thereby we forge a shortcut to nothing.
Our wives, our pets, our husbands interrupt us for good reason.
We seek solitude in the queues of those expecting something.
We walk barefoot to the tops of obvious hills to see if our thoughts will be lighter.
We are the same and refuse to accept it.
We drown at the idyllic beach of certainty.
Fame beckons… the recluse, the martyr, the ordinary.

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